As women, we spend countless hours of our lives tending to and managing our reproductive system. It’s embedded in our human experience, something we learn to navigate, cope with, and eventually accept. It’s also something we minimize and pretend doesn’t exist to make others feel more comfortable.
Just when I thought I had it all under control, my uterus betrayed me and sent me into a tailspin. What was once a monthly inconvenience turned into a never-ending battle between me and my own body. The organ I had quietly managed for decades suddenly came roaring to life with a vengeance. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say I reached my limit and decided it was time for it to go. And so it did.
I have known for my entire life that I didn’t want to have children. I have never had a motherly instinct. I have never felt a tinge of jealousy watching other women with their kids. I always knew that life was not the life I wanted. That certainty eventually became a fear of pregnancy, an impending sense of doom over the possibility of something happening that I so deeply opposed. Until recently, I don’t think I realized how much that fear followed me through life.
So when people ask me how I’m feeling now that I’ve “yeeted my uterus,” I can answer honestly that I feel relief. I feel like I won. Like I managed to successfully avoid the one thing I never wanted for myself.
Others have told me they’re sad about the finality of my decision not to have children, but that decision has been final for me for a very long time. The surgery simply allowed my body to catch up to a choice my mind had already made. Now I no longer have to suffer through the physical symptoms of caring for an unpredictable organ that had long outlived its purpose in my life.
I did this for me and me alone. I’m giving myself the gift of years of relief. And as I’ve said before, there’s no reward for suffering.
The world is my oyster
The mild and surprisingly easy healing journey I’ve been on this past week has given me more than physical relief. It has reminded me that sometimes the healthiest thing we can do is let go of what is no longer serving us. I’ve had a lot of time to think about the other things in my life that may have quietly outlived their purpose — relationships, expectations, habits, fears, or even old versions of myself that I’ve continued carrying simply because they’ve always been there.
We spend so much of our lives trying to preserve what already exists. We convince ourselves that keeping something is somehow more virtuous than releasing it. We tolerate discomfort because it feels familiar. We carry obligations because we’ve had them for years. We stay attached to identities that no longer fit because letting them go feels permanent.
But sometimes permanence is exactly what brings peace.
On the other side of letting go is space. Space for new ideas, new relationships, new opportunities, and a version of yourself that isn’t weighed down by things you’ve long since outgrown. We can’t expect something new to enter our lives if every corner is already occupied by something we’ve been meaning to release.
As strange as it sounds, removing an organ has become one of the clearest reminders I’ve received that not everything is meant to stay with us forever. Some things serve us for a season. Others become part of our story. Knowing the difference, and having the courage to let go when the time comes, may be one of the greatest acts of self-care we can offer ourselves.
